The Miracle Strip
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Contents
High Praise for
Nancy Bartholomew's The Miracle Strip
Other Titles from St. Martin's Minotaur Mysteries
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For Adam and Ben, who told their teachers and anyone who would listen that their mommy was a mystery writer, long before I could say the words aloud.
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For John, who loved and believed in me.
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and
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For my parents, who never let me walk away from a dream.
Acknowledgment
A first novel is a fragile creature, and
The Miracle Strip
is no exception. It would never have been written without the invaluable assistance, coaching, and advice of many people. Any mistakes that have been made are purely mine. I have taken liberties with the beautiful town of Panama City, moving people and places, adding buildings and streets where necessary and deleting some to suit my needs.
I could never do complete justice to the dedication and professionalism of the Panama City Police Department officers who assisted me in my research, in particular, Sargent Joe Hall, Detective Mark McClain, and Corporal Ed Eubanks. They answered hundreds of questions and let me ride with them as they went about their jobs protecting the lives and property of Panama City residents.
I am also indebted to a wonderful and loyal critique group: Wendy Greene, Nancy Gates, Ellen Hunter, Chris Farran, Carla Buckley, Pam Blackwood, and Charlotte Perkins. I am also deeply grateful to my agent, Irene Kraas, and my editor, Kelley Ragland, for having faith in Sierra Lavotini and me.
I wish to also acknowledge and thank the Greensboro, North Carolina, Police Department, and in particular Corporal J. F. Witt. Corporal Witt spent many hours answering technical and procedural questions, without hesitation and despite his busy schedule.
Thanks, too, to Nova Wyte and the staff of Club 9 1/2 Weeks in Atlanta, Georgia. Nova took me under her wing, and showed me the ropes. Dancers like Nova are few and far between.
Stuart Kaminsky befriended me when I needed guidance. He took time from his own busy writing schedule to mentor me and I will remember forever his kindness and wisdom.
Then there are the women in my life, the friends who stepped in and helped out when and where they could. They picked up the kids after school, or said, “I'll take them with me for a couple of hours, you go write.” They let me whine, they shored up my courage, and they kicked me back out into the fray. Cathy, Johan, Susan, Ellen, Tru, Wendy, Wendy, and Anita ⦠thank you.
And, as always, my heart, soul, and gratitude goes to my family. My boys ate a lot of noodles for the six months it took to write this book. My husband took up a lot of my slack and was a constant source of emotional support, as well as being my in-house editor. My extended family gathered around encouraging me and always reading, reading, reading. Thank you.
One
What happened to Arlo shouldn't have happened to a dog. Granted, Arlo was a shameless con and a flawless manipulator, but he was also brilliant and, in his way, lovable.
I've always liked a guy with charisma, and Arlo had plenty of it. I'm an exotic dancer for this little club in Panama City, Florida. It's a beach resort area, so you can believe I've heard all the lines and met all manner of men. It takes more than a line of talk to win me over, it takes nerve and daring, a certain glint to the eye that means herein lies a risk taker. I like that kind of spirit in all my friends, so it didn't particularly matter that Arlo was of the canine persuasion.
Arlo was a fixture at the Tiffany. He arrived on the scene with his owner, Denise, about a year ago. Denise tended bar and Arlo usually spent his time racked out at her feet. Everybody knew it, and everybody looked the other way, even the health inspector. Vincent, the boss, told the inspector that Denise was blind and that was why her dog worked with her. It didn't seem to matter that Arlo was a mutt of the most unrecognizable variety and not like your basic Seeing Eye dog. Arlo trotted over to the inspector, extended one of his paws to shake, and licked the guy's hand. Then Arlo proceeded to turn a backward flip and roll over three times like a circus dog.
“How the hell you teach him that?” the inspector boomed to Denise.
She looked him dead in the eye, widening her gorgeous green 20/20s, and cooed, “They sent him to me like that. I guess it's part of his training.”
The health inspector was in love, with all of his six-foot-two brawny redneck being. Denise is a looker. She's got deep red hair and she's built tiny. Men see her and instantly they're all mush, wanting to take care of the frail little bird. We laugh about it; a lot. They don't know Denise can drink most heavyweights under the table and rides a '48 Harley Panhead. Arlo rides on the banana seat in back. Denise even had a little dog helmet custom-made for him, but I digress.
It was on a Saturday night, about two months ago, that Arlo disappeared. I remember because I'd been breaking in a new routine. See, the Tiffany ain't a strip joint. We are not low class. Vincent Gambuzzo, the owner, told us when he bought the place that we would not be about a bunch of naked girls giving a pole a workout while the music blared rock and roll at a million decibels. No, the Tiffany has standards; we appeal to a higher class of customer. That is why we choreograph our dances. We have costumes and themes and music you can relate to. So I remember my routines and I remember the night Arlo disappeared.
I was doing Little Bo Peep.
Two
The music started. “We are poor little lambs who have lost our way⦔ I wandered out wearing a blond ringlet wig, a full blue dress, and pantaloons. Vince got some stuffed sheep from a pawn shop somewhere and scattered them around the stage. They were in pretty bad shape. Moth-eaten. One was missing a leg and had to be propped against the blue-sky backdrop. I stepped out in front and peered into the audience.
“Oh, where are my lambs?” I called, stretching out my arms. “Come to Mama, little lambie pies.”
That did it. These three traveling-salesman types came tumbling over one another in their rush to get to the stage. They were stopped by Bruno, the steroid-impaired bouncer, who informed them that they could go no closer. I'm peeling out of my dress by this point and standing in my little corset and pantaloons. Some of the men were baahing, and the rest were panting.
When I'm premiering an act, I look around the place to see how everyone's taking it. Denise gives me the thumbs-up if she likes it. Tonight she was crying. She didn't even look up. Her bar back was taking over, filling the drink orders, while she stood off to the side wiping her eyes. Arlo usually wandered out to the edge of the bar to watch the show, but he was nowhere to be seen. Is it my act? I wondered.
There was nothing for me to do but finish up and try to get to Denise. I quickly lost the corset and pantaloons, stripping down to a lambskin G-string and rhinestone pasties. I stepped to the edge of the stage so's the fellas could get a real good glimpse of the pasties made up to look like lambs. Then I did my grand finale. It's old-fashioned but effective. I got the tassels on my pasties swinging so they rotated in opposite directions. An engineer told me one time it was a matter of force and gravity. He said with my 38DDs it was all momentum and propulsion. I say it's a gift; you either got it or you don't.
The three drunk salesmen were hooting and throwing bills up onto the stage. I turned around, bent over, and reached through my legs to grab the money off the floor. The crowd went wild. I straightened up, blew them a kiss, and sauntered offstage. Ralph, the stage manager, was waiting, holding my purple silk kimono.
“Another winner, Sierra,” he said, helping me into my robe. “Them guys love the fairy tales.”
“Yeah, right, Ralph,” I answered as I headed toward the bar. “You're all little boys at heart.”
Denise was still crying. Her back was turned to the customers and she was trying to act like she was arranging the bottles, but no one was fooled. Her regulars stared uncomfortably into their watered-down drinks, trying to act like they didn't know she was crying. If she kept this up, the place would be empty by eleven.
“Hey, so Little Bo Peep hold some childhood memories for you or what?”
Denise walked toward me, her pretty face blotchy and her eyes swollen with tears.
“He's gone, Sierra,” she whispered. “Arlo's gone.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in, then I moved forward and put my arms around her thin shoulders.
“Oh, Denise, I'm so sorry,” I said, drawing her away from the bar. “What happened?”
I could envision poor little Arlo, roadkill outside the Restful Haven Trailer Park. Worse yet, I thought, Arlo flying off the back of Denise's cycle, careening into a tree and landing in a sandy road ditch.
Denise shook her head. “It's not that, Sierra. Somebody took him.”
Straight off, I got mad. After all, I've got a little Chihuahua, Fluffy, at home. If someone was to snatch her, well, it'd be like losing my own kid. The people here at the Tiffany, we're one another's family. The rest of the world tends not to accept us. I guess they see us as bottom feeders on the respect scale along with your prostitutes and lawyers. But we protect one another. If one of us has a problem, then we've all got a problem.
“Who'd want to take little Arlo?” I asked. “How'd they get him?”
“I don't know,” she wailed. She fumbled around, rooting through her pockets, finally drawing out what I thought was a tissue.
“They left this,” she said, handing me the crumpled, tear-wet piece of paper.
I couldn't read in the darkened bar. I led Denise back toward the employee area and stopped under one of the wall lights. There was no such thing as privacy at the Tiffany. Girls were pushing past us trying to get in and out of the dressing rooms. I spread the crumpled paper out with my hands and started reading.
IF YOU WANT TO SEE THE MUTT AGAIN, GET THE $100,000. DON'T CALL US, WE'LL CALL YOU.
It was just like the movies. The words had been cut from magazines, pasted onto the paper in uneven lines. But who would want to kidnap a dog and ask a barmaid to pay a hundred large?
I was about to ask that and a few hundred other questions, when I saw Vincent Gambuzzo bearing down on us like a Mack truck.
“Look,” I said, “Vincent don't need to get in on this. Go on back to the bar, I'll run interference for you. When we get off tonight, we'll go over to your place and figure something out.”